


the smallest coffins (Are the Heaviest)

by ForeverFalling86



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Cancer, off-screen death of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverFalling86/pseuds/ForeverFalling86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The cancer hadn't just taken their son. It'd taken pieces of them. Parts of them gone and gone and gone until all that was left were jagged gushing wounds that wouldn't cauterise. And what was life then? What did every new day bring, but another experience in bleeding out?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Some battles you just can't win. This is what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the smallest coffins (Are the Heaviest)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Six Word Stories, a group on reddit, submitted by TheWolfofWalmart.
> 
> Ironically, a few months into writing this my mum came to me on my birthday and told me she had cancer. So this story ended up being a little more cathartic than I'd expected.

# ______________________________

# 

_After the funeral, people had come to their house in a long procession. One after the other, in pairs, and trios, and alone, they came, their cars spilling from the driveway and out to line the street. They arrived, arms laden with food, to shove into an already overburdened freezer, and soft words, so that they could go back to their own lives and feel they'd done their part. And then the two of them had been left alone with a kitchen full of food instead of a son, as if they could carve a child from casserole; patch up their broken hearts with potato for grout._

_What no one told you about cancer was that it had a way of spreading into every corner and crevice of your life— that was its nature. It metastasised— It crept into your lungs and into your heart, your bones, until you were more cancer than person; more dead than alive. It crawled into bed with you at night, and seeped into your dreams. It was in the weave of your favourite sweater. It floated in your coffee and it waited for you behind the closet door. What no one seemed to understand— had never warned them about—was that the cancer hadn't just taken their son. It'd taken pieces of them. Corrupted their hopes and their dreams until they'd rotted through and needed to be cut away. Parts of them gone and gone and gone until all that was left were jagged gushing wounds that wouldn't cauterise. And what was life then? What did every new day bring, but another experience in bleeding out?_

# ______________________________

# 

Phil shut the door behind him and tossed his keys into the dish on the side table. It was beautiful out, mild for the time of year, but the curtains were all tightly drawn to block out the late afternoon sun, leaving the house dreary and dark. A thin layer of dust that no one had taken the time to wipe away had settled over most of the furniture, the rooms musty from the windows and doors being closed for too long. The plants that they’d always carefully tended to were withered and brown in their pots, dead leaves that had once been a vibrant green scattered across the carpet. For the first time since they’d moved into the house with its bare walls and echoing rooms, it felt empty; barren.

There was a thump from the second floor as he pulled off his jacket and hung it in the closet, Lucky appearing at the top of the stairs with his tail wagging sedately behind him.

“Hey,” Phil called into the silence.

The mutt bounded down the steps, crashing loudly into the hardwood before he wandered over to rub up against Phil’s legs. He reached to scratch the dog's ears, giving him a good rub down as he toed off his shoes and placed them in the closet next to a small pair of sandals, ignoring the fur that was coalescing on his slacks. He glanced over and spotted the leash where he'd left it the day before, rolled up next to the key dish and obviously untouched.

"You want out?"

Lucky whined, but slipped away and plodded back up the steps, disappearing down the hallway and out of sight instead of to the kitchen. Knowingly, Phil sighed before he followed after him, trudging up the stairs with all the enthusiasm of a man climbing the steps to the gallows. The second floor hallway was just as dark as the lower, the bathroom door shut to block out any smattering of light that might have breached the darkness. The door at the end of the hall was open just a crack, enough for Lucky to come and go as he pleased.

Phil hesitated for a moment, his hand lingering against the white panelled wood before he pushed it open further. He found Clint where he'd known he would: curled up on Adrian's bed. He had an old stuffed caterpillar that had been a third birthday gift from Steve clutched tightly in his hands, running his fingers over the plush fabric. Lucky was curled up beside him, his tail thumping sadly against the dark blue duvet, looking just as disheartened as Clint.

Lucky clung to Clint like a leach, and Clint was content to hold on just as tightly in return. Lucky had been Adrian’s. Phil'd had a dog growing up and Clint'd had a tiger and of the two options, the dog seemed the most practical, although Adrian had lobbied pretty hard for the tiger. They'd spent the better part of a month being dragged to every pound, rescue society, and breeder in the city, because six year olds could be persnickety little beasts.

It'd gone on and on until Adrian had spotted a certain one eyed puppy. He'd gone up to all the cages at the SPCA, examining the dogs with precise care before moving on until he’d reached the third from the end. It'd been love at first sight. They'd resigned themselves to cleaning light coloured fur off their black clothing and taken the dog home the next day. Lucky had been a happy little thing, who'd quickly grown out of the being little, but kept the temperament. He'd been gentle enough that they hadn't needed to worry about him biting, but bold enough that they'd known he'd protect Adrian if he ever got into trouble.

Now, after...well, after, Lucky and Clint spent their days together, holed up in the house with only each other and ghosts to keep them company. Clint was sitting exactly where Phil had left him that morning, and the morning before that; still in the sweatpants and t-shirt he'd been wearing for the last two days. Phil knocked on the doorframe to get Clint's attention, but his husband refused to look up from where he was examining the toy, the quiet dragging on into a yawning chasm between them.

The room felt like a church; heavy and sacrosanct, but Phil could remember when it'd been bright and playful with its sunflower yellow walls, and cars and lego pieces strewn across the area rug. Now everything was tucked away in its proper place; sitting on shelves and packed in the toy box, waiting for small hands to pull them out again. Even the yellow seemed to have lost its vibrancy, as if all the happiness of the colour had left with Adrian.

He leaned into the jamb for support, waiting in vain for Clint to acknowledge him. The silence was like a weight in Phil's chest, pulling him down towards the floor until he wanted to fold in on himself. Clint used to hate silence; it had annoyed him at the best of times and made him nervous and twitchy at the worst. He would turn on the radio for background noise and natter on for hours about pointless things in a way that he’d passed onto their son to keep things lively. But not anymore.

"Eaten anything?" Phil finally asked.

Clint shrugged, the movement almost lost in the half light filtering in around the edges of the blinds. "Wasn't hungry."

Phil sighed, loosening his tie. "I'll make some chicken. See if I can scrounge up some potatoes."

"I don't want chicken."

"What do you want?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'm good," Clint said, trying to put a light smile on his face and failing in the fantastic way that only Clint Barton could. "I don’t really want anything right now."

Phil shook his head, running a hand through his remaining hair as he pushed himself away from the jamb, his sock covered toes just brushing the edge of the hallway runner. "You said that about breakfast. You've got to have something. Please," he added.

Clint finally looked up at him, eyes blank and his cheekbones jutting from his hollowed out face alarmingly, in an achingly familiar way. For one staggering moment Phil was lost, looking at the ghost that waited for him behind his eyelids; that was always just around the corner, on the edge of his peripheral vision—before he blinked and instead it was only Clint's tired eyes staring back at him.

"I don't think my stomach can do chicken right now," Clint said, looking wane as he turned his attention back to the caterpillar, running his nails over it.

"Soup?" Phil suggested weakly, trying to slow the pounding of his heart.

The lack of an explicit 'no' to dinner was a victory, and that hurt even after months with New Clint. Old Clint had been different. Old Clint had been strong; he'd seemed unbreakable. New Clint was brittle and fraying at the edges like a worn blanket that you just couldn't patch. Maybe this was normal. Or maybe Clint was spiralling, like a plane in a death spin falling out of the—

All Phil knew was that New Clint was so damn sad that it sometimes hurt to look him in the eyes.

"I'll warm up that chicken noodle in the freezer," he finally said, taking Clint's continued silence as indifference. He reached for the door and swung it mostly shut, fitting it into the subtle notch where the carpet had worn down from years of leaving it slightly open.

Phil took his time getting the soup ready, cutting up some fresh carrots to toss in and mixing in a bit of protein powder that he hoped wouldn't throw off the taste. Clint eventually appeared, his footsteps silent on the tile, only the rustle of clothing announcing his presence.

"How was your day?" He looked back to see Clint shrug as he took a seat at the table, resting his head on his folded arms.

"It was fine. Yours?"

"It was alright. You didn't take Lucky for his walk," Phil commented, testing the waters as he stirred the simmering pot.

"Yeah," Clint muttered tiredly, sounding drained just from effort of holding a conversation. "Tomorrow. I'll take him tomorrow."

Phil busied himself grabbing a bowl and reaching into the cabinet above the microwave to retrieve a bottle of pills that was hidden toward the back. Clint didn't bother looking up as Phil set a bowl of soup in front of him, but he did when Phil placed two pills down on a napkin beside a spoon. Clint glanced at them before shoving them away, sending the small tablets skittering across the wooden tabletop.

"Look,— 

"I don't want them," he said, shaking his head.

"Doctor Thompson said you need—

"No."

" _Clint_ —

"I'm not taking them," Clint said, his voice straining to sound steady. "They make everything feel foggy."

Phil took a calming breath as he pulled out a chair and took a seat. "I'll make an appointment with her and we can figure—

"I don't want _any_ pills, Phil. They're not going to fix anything."

Clint said it with such certainty that Phil wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he saw reason— until he just _tried_.

"You need to give them a chance," Phil told him, fighting to keep his cool as he pushed the pills back across the table. Clint looked up from his untouched soup to glare.

"Seriously, they don't work."

"You don't know that," Phil snapped, shoving himself to his feet. "You can't just take them for a few days and expect them to make a difference. How many times do I— They can take up to a month. You've got to take them regularly if you want to feel better. You know that."

"I don't need them," he insisted. "I'm not sick."

"We've _talked_ about this," Phil huffed, exasperation creeping into his voice. "What do you call _this_? What do you call lying in bed all day? Not leaving the damn house? This isn't normal."

"I call it Adrian being dead," Clint growled, standing to meet him head on. "I call it my son being six feet in the fucking ground. That's what's wrong!" Clint yelled his voice cracking as he shoved away his chair. "Can those damn pills fix that? Can they bring him back? _No_?" He asked with a twisted look on his face. "Then fuck them!" Clint snarled as he crushed one of the pills on the table with the heel of his hand before he disappeared from the kitchen and back upstairs.

Phil heard a door— _the_ door— slam before silence fell over the house again. Lucky slunk over to him from where he'd been hiding under the table, relegated to Phil's side now that Clint had shut them out.

"It's okay," Phil said tiredly, leaning down to give the dog a pat on the head. Lucky stared up at him with a sad brown eye that seemed to bore into his soul. He barely lasted a minute before he relented, "Wanna' go see Daddy?"

The word caught in his throat— Clint had always been Daddy, and he'd been Papa, and they'd been _parents_ , but what were they now? There was a word for someone who lost their husband or their wife or their parents. But what was a parent without a child? A father without a son?

Two ears perked up at the mention of his favourite person and Lucky bounded off, Phil slowly trailing after him. He abandoned his tie on the banister and worked on undoing the top buttons of his shirt. Lucky was waiting in front of Adrian's room, his tail wagging as he let out a small whine. Phil shushed him gently, the desire to run building in his chest. He stared at the door, afraid of the ghosts that lay behind it as his hand lingered on the knob.

He just had to turn it. _Turn it_. His forehead thumped lightly against the wood as he tried to breathe. _Turn it, you bastard. Turn it._ He heard a muffled sob from inside and ripped his hand away as if he'd been burned. Lucky continued to whine as Phil darted to the opposite end of the hall, escaping into his bedroom.

Phil lay awake in bed for hours after he'd turned out the lights, wrapped in four blankets, missing the warmth of Clint at his side; wishing things were better—wishing for a lot of things, really. In the dead silence of the night, he could just hear Clint crying, the sound filtering in past the walls and doors that separated them from one another. He rolled over and did his best to ignore it.

# ______________________________

# 

_Late at night, when he should be sleeping, Phil wondered why their lives had played out the way they had._

_The facts were these: thirteen and a half thousand children were diagnosed with cancer in the US every year and twenty-five percent of those children died. Those were the numbers. He'd heard them before probably, one place or another, but hadn't spared the time to really consider. Because cancer didn't happen to you. It didn't happen to your family. Cancer happened to other people whose faces you couldn't tell from Adam. Cancer happened in a far off land called Not Your Life._

_But then there were these numbers, numbers you'd heard somewhere before, and scan results, and biopsies, that told you that yes, yes it can. In fact, it had. And it burned. Burned something fierce, like a fire in the pit of your stomach because why_ you _? In all the people in all the world, why was this happening to you? What had you done? What had you fed him? What_ hadn't _you fed him? What went wrong?_

_And then what really got you, what kept you up at night, what really just made you want to take the world into your hands and rip it to shreds, to scream until your throat bled, was the realisation that you hadn't done anything. You hadn't done anything to deserve it, to cause it. But lo and behold, there it was anyway._

_And there wasn't a damn thing you could do about it._

# ______________________________

# 

He woke up alone, missing Clint like a lost limb. Some mornings, before he was fully awake, he'd roll over, searching for Clint only to remember that he wasn't there. Hadn't slept there for weeks, months. But for a moment, he forgot. And that was its own sort of bliss. Clint was beside him and Adrian was down the hall with Lucky keeping guard to chase away any monsters. When he finally blinked awake he met a reality where Adrian was in the ground a few miles away, and Clint was down the long stretch of hallway, Lucky unable to scare away the monsters that had made a home for themselves in his head.

It made getting out of bed feel impossible, but every morning he did it. Every morning Phil pushed away the covers, climbed out of bed, and got dressed. Every layer of clothing was a barrier, a shield between him and everything that would ruin him like it had ruined Clint. By the time the knot on his tie was done, he was put together again. He was whole. He was fine. He was Agent Coulson. The father and husband was tucked underneath the tight military corners on the bed, and tossed into the hamper with his t-shirt, washed away by too hot water, and sealed beneath a tailored suit.

The door at the end of the hall was ajar, the room dark, but he knew that Clint was in Adrian's bed, Lucky crammed in with him. Phil sighed as he made his way down the stairs and to the kitchen to grab something for the road. The coffee was already percolating in the machine and he was tempted to grab just that, but the rotgut was enough to turn him off. He poured as much as he could fit into his thermos and grabbed a handful of grapes to go, setting out a bowl of them along with an apple in hopes that Clint would find and eat them later.

He wasn't expecting an overexcited Lucky to take him out at the knees as he turned the corner into the living room, sending his coffee sloshing over the sides of his thermos, and grapes rolling across the hardwood and onto rug.

"Settle," he ordered sharply as Lucky danced around his heels, snuffling up the grapes from the carpet. His shirt had been spared, but his hand hadn't, the skin a bright inflamed red.

"Damn dog," he sighed as he set down the thermos on the coffee table and went to run his wrist under some water.

By the time he was done, Lucky was sticking his nose under the couch, obviously fishing for a stray grape or two. Phil pushed him away, reaching under to feel around for them. Instead of a grape, his fingers clamped down on something soft that had been shoved towards the back of the couch. Phil tugged, thinking it was a wayward dishcloth, only to pull out a small yellow and grey sweater with a Bumblebee decal on the front. His heart shuddered in his chest as he brushed off the dust bunnies. He and Clint had driven themselves crazy for weeks searching high and low after Adrian had lost it. It had to have fallen between the couch and the wall while one of them had been folding laundry.

They'd gone from store to store looking for the same sweater, because apparently another similar one just wouldn't do— "Pernickety little bastard," Clint had whispered, looking hunted— until they’d finally given up. By that point, Adrian had been happy enough to switch to wearing his second favourite sweater instead, but Phil had still climbed out of bed in the middle of the night countless times after remembering one last place it could be. He’d never thought to look under the couch. It was too late now.

The week before he'd found a misplaced Hot Wheels in one of his loafer's in the closet. The week before that, the illusive partner to a small grey sock had been found hidden behind the hamper in the ensuite. Phil wondered when he'd finally find all of the little reminders strewn across the house, the little bits and bobs that Adrian had left behind for them to stumble across.

Grapes forgotten, Phil clutched the sweater to his chest for a moment before he held it to his nose. Instead of sweat and raspberry shampoo, the fabric smelled stale and musty. Disappointment flooded him like a tidal wave as Phil shoved the sweater back underneath the couch to rest with the dust and dog hair where he could forget about it and find it all over again.

# _____________

# 

He took the SHIELD issued sedan and left Lola in the garage, the cherry red of her body hidden beneath a car cover. The drive into downtown was busy as always, but it seemed like only minutes before he was behind his desk, hardly remembering how he'd gotten there.

Phil had joined SHIELD for three reasons: Nick was a persuasive bastard, there may have been some blackmail involved, and for the excitement. The day's five hour budgetary committee meeting he had to chair did nothing to make him forget those facts. Numbers had never been his calling, but in the case of budgets, a mind that could balance pragmatism with empathetic understanding was the only real requirement. He had that in spades, so Phil had been given the coveted position at the head of the table, situated between the department heads and the accountants so that he might mediate and prevent a declaration of intra-SHIELD war. It was boring, it was endless, and it was exactly what he didn't need to be doing with his days when he knew that May was leading his team on a mission in Zimbabwe.

"Ah, sir," his secretary called— a willowy junior agent on desk duty until her broken leg healed up. "You've got some personal messages. A couple from—

"I'll take them," he cut her off, holding his hand out for the sticky notes. "Thank you, Agent Walker. Please hold all personal calls unless they're urgent."

"Yes, sir," she said, slipping out with barely a limp to her gait. She'd be leaving soon and someone else on the injured roster would take her place; another in an endless line of temps he'd had since he'd asked to be stationed back in New York after Adrian's death. He glanced down at the notes- a few calls from Natasha, several from Maria and Jasper, two from Captain Rogers, and one from Jimmy Woo. He ripped them up before he tossed them into the recycling bin along with the ones from the day before.

# ______________________________

# 

_Working at an agency like SHIELD—one that dealt in secrets so deep and dark that they had a vault beneath the ocean just to hold some of them—meant that you forfeited your right to have any. Even the greenest of junior agents could sniff out a secret like a bloodhound looking for a fox. Only an official seal or security clearance requirement could throw the dogs off and even that wasn't enough sometimes. Naturally, this meant that every agent, from the greenest of the green, up to members of elite STRIKE teams, knew what'd happened. Their whispering followed him like a shadow wherever he went, their stares weighing down his shoulders like a heavy coat he couldn't shuck. ___

_"...died and now his husband's lost it. Fucking sad, man."_

_"...the kid once; a sweet munchkin."_

_"Poor Agent Coulson, everyday..."_

_"Poor Barton, you know, the guy hasn't..."_

_"Poor little boy."_

_Yes, poor little boy._

# ______________________________

# 

There were days, sometimes even short strings of them, when Clint seemed better. He would go for runs and put on his jeans, he'd smile and laugh and call up Natasha for coffee. The first time, Phil had thought he'd somehow walked into an alternate dimension—it'd happened before— but then he'd just figured the meds were finally working, that Clint was improving like the Doctor had promised. It'd been two days of bliss and almost normalcy.

Then the spell had broken when he'd come home on day three to find Clint back in Adrian's room, looking like he'd never left in the first place. It had happened again a handful of weeks later. Then a month after that. It was a vicious cycle of hope and disappointment that they played out again and again. It was a dance that Phil had come to know intimately since Adrian's diagnosis; one that he could perform with his eyes clenched tightly shut.

When he got home to find that the house smelled of all purpose cleaner and baking chicken, Phil tried to steel himself for what was probably going to be a wonderful evening and a gutting morning. He tucked Clint's runners along with his own shoes into the closet next to a pair of mud covered Spiderman sandals and unwound Lucky's leash from the doorknob, putting it on the side table where it belonged.

"I'm home," he yelled as the dog came running into the front hall. The blanket of dust that had accumulated on the coffee and end tables had been wiped away and the hardwood and carpets looked freshly cleaned. The heady smell of artificial lemon stung Phil's sinuses as he put his coat away. He tripped and lurched his way into the living room with Lucky weaving around and through his legs excitedly like the overgrown cat he sometimes thought he was. The windows were all open to try to tempt in some whisper of a breeze, but the curtains remained stubbornly still.

"Hey," Clint called from the kitchen, appearing from around the corner with a dishcloth in his hands. "Dinner'll be ready in a half hour."

"Smells great."

"How was your day?"

"It was good. Meetings mostly."

"Fun," Clint said sarcastically as he tossed the cloth aside. "Feel like watching a movie tonight? I was thinking about that new Rogan comedy."

"Mind if we have a rain check?" Phil asked as he settled down onto the couch, loosening his tie. "Tonight's a little jammed and the DVR can't record it all. Brooklyn Nine-Nine is on though, that's funny."

"Never heard of it. What is it?" Clint asked curiously, as he slipped around to the other side of the counter to peel potatoes.

"Andy Sandburg's show. It's good. You'll like it."

"Sure, sounds good," Clint smiled as he kept working.

"You need any help with that?"

"Nah, I got this," he said, dicing the peeled potatoes expertly. "Nothing too fancy for me to handle. I was thinking we could use the leftovers for soup or something."

"Sounds good."

They ended up laughing their way through Brooklyn Nine-Nine, snarking between bites of potato and chicken that Clint actually ate without just swirling it around his plate. They spent the night on the couch with Lucky curled up between them in his customary spot, sneaking bits of chicken here and a potato there from Clint's plate while he pretended he didn't know it was happening.

"You're spoiling him," Phil said after Lucky had stolen another chunk of chicken that Clint had subtly shifted within the dog's reach. "He's going to blow up like a balloon."

"He doesn't like that weight control food the vet has him on" Clint grumbled. "Poor guy deserves a treat now and then."

"Don't think I don't know about that twenty-eight pack of pizza pops in the basement freezer," Phil said, pointing his fork at his husband accusingly. "You're not as sneaky as you think you are. Stop feeding the damn dog pizza."

"But he likes them," Clint complained, running a hand over Lucky's ears. "The little guy has to put up with that damn kibble every day, so sue me if I give him a treat now and then."

"'Put up with' is a little strong, considering he practically takes me out at the knees every morning. And 'now and then' means _now and then_ , not twice a week. He's not going to be little much longer if you keep it up."

Clint considered this for a moment, a frown on his face. "Fine. I'll switch him to pizza bagels. Smaller portions."

"Jesus, you're impossible," Phil groaned.

"Pot, kettle," Clint said fondly.

They spent the rest of the evening watching the primetime line up, leading into the late night talk shows. Phil clued Clint in on the shows that required consistent viewing, bridging over entire seasons for shows that they'd once watched together weekly. Eventually it was late enough that if he wanted any hope of feeling well rested, Phil needed to head to bed.

"Are you coming up?" He asked from the bottom of the stairs, trying to push down the hope that was burning in his chest.

"Yeah, in a few minutes," Clint said, eyes still fixed on the television screen where Jon Stewart was running through his opening monologue. "I just wanna' hear the interview."

Phil fell asleep before Clint came to bed, and woke up alone, the other side of the bed undisturbed just like it was every other morning. The keen disappointment that lanced through him like a knife took him by surprise, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn't as though he hadn't expected it— anticipated it— just like he did every other time. Hope had always been one of his greatest strengths, but one thing that the past few years had taught him was that it was also his greatest weakness. Hope was a cancer in and of itself.

# _____________

# 

When he came home that evening, the house was dark and silent as he stood in the foyer, his hands clenching and unclenching uselessly around Lucky's obviously unused leash. Anger boiled in his stomach as he kicked off his shoes and ripped off his jacket, tossing it over the side table. He didn't mean to stomp up the steps, but rage weighed him down until his feet were like cement blocks, the wooden stairs creaking under him as he took them two at a time.

The door was slightly ajar, as it always was, and he shoved it open with the flat of his palm.

"We're back to this," he said, the words spilling out coldly when he was sure he could breathe fire. Clint looked up, his eyes sad, but Phil didn't want his sadness. He was _angry_. He was steaming mad, his sweaty hands quaking and his pulse racing, thundering loudly in his ears.

"What?" His voice was quiet, soft and fraying around the edges, when yesterday it had been vibrant and loud.

"You— yesterday, I— I don't get it, Clint," he choked out, words fighting to get out of this throat. "I've made you doctor's appointments, we got you meds, I put in the paperwork for your leave of absence and I've extended it and _extended_ it. But you won't go Thompson, and you won't take your meds, and every day I come home and you've barely fucking moved. You've just shut down. How am I supposed to help you when you don't want to help yourself? I don't know what you want from me," he said, pleading.

Clint looked startled, setting down the picture book he'd been holding. "What I _want_ from you?"

"I can't live like this, Clint!" he yelled, pushing himself off the doorjamb to pace the hallway, tugging at his hair. "I can't. I don't know what you want, or what you need me to do—

"I don't need you to do anything," Clint said. "I just need time—

"You've had time! Months! What is it, are you punishing me? Is that what this is all about? Jesus, just talk to me!" Phil shouted, rounding to face him again.

Clint finally stood, the picture book forgotten as Lucky slunk down under the bed, shying away from the noise. "I'm not _punishing_ you. Is that what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?"

"Don't put your own fucking guilt on me," Clint snapped. "You want me to talk to you? Fine, let's talk. Why are you feeling so damn guilty, Phil? Is it because you went to _work_?" He shouted, reaching down to grab the book and send it sailing through the air to smash against the wall next to the door.

"You fucking leave—left me here with him to watch him die, and you come waltzing back in here, like _I'm_ the problem? Like I've fucking lost it?!"

Clint's anger came in a swell, like a wave that had been held back, but finally breached the levees. Phil had thought he'd seen him angry before, but this was new. It was a force of nature, a howling wind, an anger no longer tempered by sadness; it was pure rage that twisted Clint's face.

"Let's get Clint some meds, let's set up some appointments with a therapist; play Clean Up on this fucking mess. Our son is dead, you asshole! And where were you?!"

"I—

"You _what_?" Clint sneered. "Fuck you," he said viciously, the 'f' catching on his bottom lip so sharply the Phil thought it might bleed. "What excuse could you possibly have that could ever be good enough? What the hell makes you think anything you could say could make you abandoning him alright?"

The words landed like a punch to Phil's diaphragm, forcing an apology from his mouth like a gust of air before he could stop them. "I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I'm so sorry. I couldn't— I couldn't do it," he said weakly, shame colouring his voice. "I couldn't accept that it was over. And see him like that..."

"Yeah, so I had to," Clint said coldly. "I had to sit here with him while you were with SHIELD, being Fury's lapdog with your new agents, going on adventures in your nice fucking plane. So say what you want, Phil. Maybe I sit around all day. Maybe I do need those meds, but at least I was here."

"You think I don't know that? You think I'm not living with that weighing on me every day?" Phil asked, hurt curling in his stomach.

"You could've fooled me," Clint said. "Walking around pretending like nothing happened— like he was never here to begin with."

"Jesus," he said. " _Jesus_. Is that what you think? God, Clint. There's not enough imagination in the world to let me pretend he wasn't here. I'm just _trying_. Trying to move on with my life, to work through it and— and persevere," he said.

"You think I'm not trying?" Clint shot back.

"Considering you've spent the past few months hiding in this room? I don't know _what_ you're doing other than wallowing," he said, frustrated. "We're never going to get passed this if—you're stronger than this, alright? I know you are. We can start going to appointments, and we can get you some new meds. Anything you need, but you have to try. Or else—

Phil broke off, stopping the words from escaping before it was too late, but the look on Clint's face told him plainly that it already was.

"Or else? Or else what, Phil?" Clint laughed mirthlessly. "You'll divorce me?"

"Divorce you—?" Phil started, disbelieving, but Clint railroaded over him.

"Go ahead. It's not like you're ever home."

"Don't," Phil growled. "I'm here. I've been here every night trying to make up— I'm here. _You're_ the one who's always gone. You're the one who's always hiding up in this damn room. I'm amazed you haven't moulded to the bed!"

"Screw you," Clint spat.

"Well," Phil laughed, words building in his chest. Sliding up his throat and into his mouth. Words he knew that were wrong before he even said them, but they spilled from his mouth anyway, meant to wound; a precision strike. "Someone should, because I'm sure as hell not— 

The moment Clint's fist crashed into his face, Phil figured he deserved it. You didn't provoke a world class assassin without expecting some consequences. That didn't make it hurt any less.

"Shit," he hissed cupping his bleeding nose. "Christ, that hurts."

Blood dripped onto the hallway runner, staining it a rusty red as it spilled out from between his fingers. Lucky was barking incessantly as Clint screamed for him to get out. Phil looked up to find his husband glaring down at him, his face red and his eyes pained, and Phil knew his words had hit their target. Too well. When had this become about hurting one another?

"Get the fuck out before I wring your goddamn neck," Clint growled, pacing the area rug like an overgrown jungle cat, his shoulders hunched and his hands twitching at his sides in remembrance of a bow.

Phil hesitated, his blood still dropping steadily onto the carpet, wanted to just reach out and —

" _Get the hell out!_ "

And so Phil left. Because that was what he always did.

# _____________

# 

Of all the ways he'd woken up over the years, waking with a crick in his neck from sleeping on his office couch and a migraine the size of a station wagon wasn't the worst. Wasn't the best, but that was what you got after a domestic with your husband who'd been known to punch bags of rocks to toughen his hands. His nose was, by some miracle, unbroken, but the impressive bruising that had spread under his eyes and across the tops of his cheek bones left him looking like a Fight Club extra.

He'd slunk passed the nightshift and security, hoping that he could prevent his marital issues from becoming the scuttlebutt for the day. So naturally, by 10 AM everyone knew, because spying was just another way of saying gossip mongering. Every few minutes someone would peak through his door and offer him a sympathetic smile and he'd give them a bland stare in return.

Phil knew she'd show up eventually, but he still had to stifle a reflexive twitch when a voice out of nowhere asked: "What did you do?"

Natasha was standing in the doorway in her tac suit, her hair longer and straighter than he'd last seen it.

"It suits you," he said, looking back to his computer screen.

"You could've seen it weeks ago if you weren't ignoring all of us. And don't change the subject," she said as she walked towards him, her steps as predatory as ever.

"What makes you think I did anything?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Please," she huffed, reaching out to tilt his head to get a better look at bruising on his face. "I know the shape of Clint's fist when I see it."

"Yeah," he relented as she let him go. "I did something."

"If it makes you feel better," she started. "We've both seen Clint snap a man's femur while half dead. What the hell happened?"

Phil sighed, before he started in. As he explained what'd happened she shook her head and took the seat in front of his desk. When he finished she huffed again, sitting up to lean onto the top of his desk, until they were almost elbow to elbow.

"It's not your job to fix him," Natasha said gently, her green eyes locking onto his own. "And it's not your place to tell him how to grieve."

"I know that. It's just— he's stuck right now. And he doesn't seem to want to fix it. I just— I keep thinking that maybe I can't give him the help he needs. Maybe he needs to be someplace where he can get better."

"He'd hate you the minute you even breathed a thought of sending him away," Natasha said. "And he doesn't need to fix 'it'. Nothing's going to fix it. Especially not those pills that therapist you've hired is giving him."

Phil narrowed his eyes at her. "Have you been talking to him?"

"I'm an expert on all things Clint. Never forget that," she said flippantly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Clint does everything in his own time. He'll go to her when he's ready. Obviously, he's not yet. Just go home and talk to him. Tell him how you're feeling."

"I tried that last night. It didn't go so well," he said, gesturing at his face.

"You went after him when he was already feeling vulnerable," she told him. "He's not an enemy combatant. It's not an interrogation. He's not a specialist that you can order around. He's your husband. Your husband who feels like you abandoned him to watch your son die," she added, not attempting to soften any blows. "Clint's always felt too much for his own good, and we both know he's had depression problems before. He's come back from this before; he'll do it again. Go home, the paperwork can wait and you can postpone your two o'clock. Sit down and talk with him like you used to. Ask him what he's feeling."

"I think I have a pretty good idea of what he's feeling. He's mad as hell. The screaming and the almost breaking my nose kind of clued me in," he said blandly.

"If you think he's really mad, you're hopeless," Natasha said sharply, rapping her knuckles against the desk. "I've seen Clint mad. I've seen him furious. He doesn't lash out when he's angry- that was his father. That's Barney. Clint lashes out when he's scared or upset. He's fucking _devastated_. It wasn't anger that made him hit you, Coulson. You need to stop obsessing about Clint for a minute and think about what _you're_ feeling. Because this whole 'I'm fine, I'm Agent Coulson' thing that you're too scared to stop projecting is part of the reason you got sucker punched in the face like some green ass junior agent. Go home, Phil," she said, taking one of his hands in hers. "Talk to your damn husband."

# ______________________________

# 

_Phil's greatest secret was that deep down, he was just as dead inside as Clint. Rotting away inside where no one could see— like a cancer found too late. He'd just learned to compartmentalise. He wondered if it meant that Clint was the healthier of the two of them._

# ______________________________

# 

Phil walked in the front door and promptly almost killed himself tripping over a pile of shoes that he was positive hadn't been there when he'd left the night before. Runners, flip flops, sandals, and dress shoes of various colours and styles were scattered across the front hall carpet, the closet completely emptied out. Phil caught himself on the side table, regaining his balance as he stared down at the mess.

He sighed before he added the pair he'd been wearing to the pile, glancing up at the stairs expectantly, knees already braced for impact. A moment ticked by, but Lucky didn't appear, the house seeming eerily quiet without the sounds of the dog thundering down the stairs.

"Lucky?"

Nothing. Clint had to have him.

Phil pulled off his jacket as he climbed the stairs, glancing down the hall to Adrian's closed door. He bypassed it as he took note, wanting to get out of his suit before he did anything else. He tossed his jacket onto the bed, resisting the urge to follow it and just collapse onto the covers.

As he undid his top button, Phil noticed for the first time that Clint's closet doors were thrown wide open. He went over to close them, but froze, hand still at his collar. Phil found himself standing at the mouth of the open doors looking at the bare rod and empty drawers that were hanging off their tracks, uncomprehendingly. The closet had been emptied out. All of Clint's clothes missing except for the single suit he owned still hanging sadly to the side. Empty. Why was it empty? Phil stared blankly into the barren innards, wondering where the hell his husband's clothes had gone. Everything down to the last sock was missing. Phil righted one of the drawers, shoving it back onto its track as he glanced inside of it and all of the others. A second look gave him the same stock: one black suit, hardly worn.

It looked like Clint had packed— 

Phil glanced up onto the higher shelves, finding boxes filled with trinkets and old decorations, but no clothing. He stepped back, looking at the scene in front of him, coming again and again to the same conclusion. It looked like Clint had packed everything up.

Packed. Packed, his brain kept telling him, like a record that kept skipping in the same place. Packed. Clint had packed all his things up. Packed up and left.

Phil staggered away from the closet and collapsed back onto the bed, his heart suddenly in his throat as he struggled to breathe, understanding coming on like a gale force wind. Gone. Clint was gone. Had packed up his clothes and his socks and his shoes— the dog, he'd taken Lucky— and left. Gone. _Gone_. Phil sat frozen on the bed, grasping at the duvet as thoughts raced through his head at a mile a minute. Clint was gone. Adrian was gone. Even the damn dog was gone.

He was alone.

Phil stared blankly out at the walls, the room suddenly feeling cavernous around him, as his mind steadily began doing what it did best: planning. He'd have to sell the house. Put everything that Clint didn't want in storage and requisition an onsite apartment at SHIELD until he left again; there was no sense in renting one himself. Clint could get a place in Bedstuy— he'd always liked the neighbourhood, and if Phil was lucky, he could convince him to move into a nice gentrified area. He made a note to look up the classifieds later. Something close to a park would be good for the dog, and Clint would like to see the trees outside his window— would find it calming to watch the birds flitting between the branches. Clint would let him visit— see the dog whenever he wanted, he was positive.

Phil could make this work. It was doable. Survivable. He could do this. He could, he thought, trying to breathe and calm his racing heart. He could. He could, he thought again, trying to convince himself. If he could convince himself, he could get up. He could get up and move. He could breathe. He could hang up his suit and go make some dinner as he surfed the classifieds; could think about asking prices. All he had to do was convince himself of a simple fact.

It felt like his lungs were collapsing in on themselves, like his heart was a supernova behind his ribs, cracking them into splinters one by one; like every part of him had finally had enough. Phil gasped, ripping off his tie and tossing it somewhere while he choked on a sob, the cry catching roughly in his throat as the bruises on his face pulsed. He pushed himself up dizzily and stumbled his way into the ensuite as bile rolled up his throat like lava. Phil clutched the porcelain of the toilet bowl with shaking hands, as he gagged.

It felt like something was trying to claw its way out of his sternum, a monster that wanted to make its escape. Phil choked on it, his breath stuttering as his muscles seized and his fingers turned white where he was gripping the toilet, the delicate bones straining under the pressure.

When he was done and could finally move again, Phil sank down onto the tile, unable to stand on unsteady legs, his equilibrium gone, everything thrown off its axis. The plaster of the wall was cool against his flushed neck as he tried to catch his breath, tears hot on his face. Phil tugged at his hair, his fingers twisting in viciously as he attempted to steady his breathing, counting out the seconds as he tried to level out.

_Thump_

The noise was faint from where he was sitting, almost lost over the sound of his pulse, but Phil heard it anyway. His ears rang in the following silence as he listened trying to hear it— the noise came again, louder.

Phil pushed himself up and off the wall, slipping on the tile in his rush. He bolted towards Adrian's room, narrowly avoiding a spectacular crash into the linen closet across from his bedroom door. When he reached the end of the hallway, for the first time in months, Phil didn't hesitate to open the door.

Instead of the empty room he'd been imagining, Clint was standing in the centre of the room, surrounded by boxes of various sizes that were scattered across the floor and all the flat surfaces.

"You're here," he blurted, relief flooding him so quickly his ears started ringing again with the impending adrenaline crash. "All...all your things. They're gone," he said, at a loss.

"Washin' it all. Smells too stale to wear," Clint murmured. "I asked Katie to take yer'suits to the cleaner too. Should be done by tomorrow."

"What are you doing?" he asked from the doorway, feeling like an idiot as his toes brushed the end of the hallway runner, wanting nothing more than to grab Clint and never let go.

"Cleanin' up. Packin'," he added, looking away from a pile of Berenstain Bears books. "I know I've been givin' you shit, but yer'right," Clint slurred, unsteadily leaning over to grab a bottle of expensive vodka, that'd been a gift from Natasha, off the rug. "I've gotta' get over it, ya know? He's gone," he said decisively, in the way only a truly drunk man could. "Moping 'round like a slug won't bring him back."

Phil ran a tired hand over his face, his heart rate finally beginning to settle, the sudden calm leaving him clammy and dizzy. "You don't need to—

For the first time Clint's eyes met his and Phil was struck by how blown his pupils were, gunmetal blue almost completely swallowed up. "Are you...high, right now?"

Clint stared at him blankly, his fingers twitching nervously around the bottle. Any sense of relief left Phil's body in a rush of anger as he turned on his heel, almost stumbling down the stairs on his way to the kitchen, Lucky hot on his heels and looking for dinner. He rifled through the cabinet, already knowing what he'd find: the bottle of anti-depressants, now far emptier than it had any right to be.

"Jesus," he growled to himself as he checked again to see how many were missing before he whipped them away. The bottle cracked against the wall, the spills scattering across the tile and rolling in every direction, probably never to all be found.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" He yelled up at the ceiling. "Alcohol and anti-depressants? Are you serious?! You know better!" he ranted, stomping up the stairs as if he could stamp his anger into the wood beneath him.

"What if you'd OD'd? I'm supposed to come home to find you dead on the floor?!"

"I'm _fine_ ," Clint spat as he came into view, still standing inside that damn room.

"You're fine? You are so far from fine I don't think you even know what it looks like anymore!"

"I'm tryin', alright?! You told me that I need to move on, so I'm trying!"

"By ruining your kidneys? By killing yourself so I have to bury you too?"

"Fuck you," Clint said, but the fight gone from his voice and he just sounded tired. As tired as Phil felt.

"You told me I needed to move on. So I'm trying." His shoulders sagged, "This is the only way I can try without it feeling like my heart is trying to rip its way out of my chest. It's the only way I can _breathe_ ," he said, looking hopeless. "You want everything to be normal again— and I get it. But I'm not there yet. And this is the only way I know how to fake it for you."

"I don't want you to have to fake it," Phil told him, guilt welling up behind his sternum until his chest felt tight. "I just want you to get better. I want you to have a conversation with me. Tell me what's going on with you. Tell me how to help. _Let me_ help."

Clint stared at him, eyes red. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, only to shut it. They stood in silence for a moment before Clint finally sighed, "I don't even know how you could help. I just don't want you to leave me. I don't want a divorce," he said desperately.

"I don't either," Phil told him vehemently, the mere thought putting his stomach in knots again. The sight of the empty closet still burned into his retinas, the emptiness of being alone now written in his bones.

"I don't know how to do this," Clint whispered, staring down at the bottle in his hands. "I'm trying, you know? I swear to God, I'm trying. Every night I tell myself to get it together. But then its morning and I can't fucking _breathe_. And I just see him laying there in that box. Disappearing under all that dirt, "Clint choked out as his chest heaved."Goddamn photographic memory," he added, laughing. "I can't get it out of my head. I just imagine him down there all alone."

"Clint...That's not Adrian anymore. That's not him down there. Adrian's gone," Phil told him weakly, fighting to speak passed the lump in his throat.

"I know," Clint said quietly. "But it's his face and it's his hair and his hands." He was silent for a moment, his eyes beginning to water as he blinked rapidly, trying to clear them. "I-I still remember holding his hands as he learned to walk. He was so small then," He added disjointedly. "I never thought this'd happen. We were supposed to have more time. We were supposed to have the rest of our lives with him. _Why'd_ this happen?" he croaked, the bottle of vodka slipping through his fingers and rolling across the rug.

"I don't know," Phil told him, shaking his head, wishing he could give some answer, if not for Clint, than for himself. "I really don't know. I ask myself that every night."

Clint stared down at the bottle of vodka, looking lost in the centre of the room, surrounded by an ocean of half packed boxes filled with toys.

"I thought he'd get better," Clint groaned suddenly, covering his face with his hands as his shoulders shook. Phil wanted to go to him, to help hold Clint together as he seemed to shake apart in front of him, great heaving sobs escaping, even as he tried to swallow them down. But Phil stayed where he was, his feet cemented to the hallway carpet, his hands clutching at the doorjamb, unable to move as he watched the man he loved implode on himself.

"I thought so too," Phil whispered, remembering how sure he'd been. How that surety had slowly been twisted and warped until he knew it in every corner of his being that Adrian was dying. That there was nothing more to do except wait. "We all thought he'd—

"You don't fucking get it!" Clint yelled, shaking his head, pulling at his hair as he gasped. "I _told_ him he'd get better."

Phil tried to say something, but Clint railroaded over him, his voice low and filled with pain, slowly speeding up like a locomotive picking up speed, unable to stop now that he'd started.

"We never let the doctors explain it to him. And then when we brought him home we didn't, and then you were just gone. What was I supposed to say? How the fuck do you tell a goddamn seven year old that he's going to die, Phil?!" Clint screamed, kicking out at a box and sending a container of lego bursting out onto the rug in burst of bright primary colours. "What words do you use to explain that? I— I couldn't. I didn't."

He reached down to pick up a red piece, almost toppling over before he sat down heavily on the vodka soaked carpet. "The night...I could tell," he said, his voice barely above a murmur so that Phil had to strain his ears to hear. "It was exactly like the books said. He was just so tired."

Phil couldn't stop a sob from escaping his throat, the sound bursting forth from his mouth before he could choke it back. He pressed a hand to his mouth to hold the rest in.

"But I still didn't say anything," Clint continued, slowly going about picking up the lego that he'd spilled and placing them individually back in their container. "I told him that we'd watch Transformers in the morning. I said goodnight and I tucked him in. And then he was gone," He finished heavily, tears and snot rolling down his reddened face. "He just went to sleep and he was fucking gone."

Clint clutched at his chest as he doubled over on the carpet, suddenly completely quiet, even as he continued to cry, as if the sadness were so deep that it couldn't escape, as if his loud breathy sobs were not enough to express the soul deep sadness he was feeling. 

# ______________________________

# 

_Phil had never felt shame like this. He'd made mistakes in his life. Some that had cost good people their lives and ended in utter disaster. But when he died, it wouldn't be any of that that weighed on his mind. It would be this: Clint, lying in the small twin bed with Adrian in his arms, like he had on so many occasions after a nightmare, the light filtering in from the slightly open door, unable to do anything but wait._

# ______________________________

# 

Phil stood at a loss for words for a moment, struggling to find the right thing to say. The magic words that would make everything better— would put Clint back together.

"There...there was nothing you could've done. Nothing either of us could've done. We tried everything, Clint. He just...couldn't shake it."

"I know that," Clint bawled. "But I keep thinking what if— what if he _knew_ , Phil? What if he could tell? What if he felt like he couldn't talk to me about it because I never said anything?" Clint looked up at him, looking utterly heartbroken. "What if he was scared?"

"Y-You were with him the whole time," Phil said, no longer bothering to try to stop himself from crying as he sank down onto the floor, standing suddenly seeming an impossible task. "He never could've been scared with you there."

Clint shook his head. "I can't stop thinking about it. It just takes over until I can't do anything else. I should've...," Clint grit out as he seemed to collapse in on himself again, wrapping his arms around his stomach as if to hold everything together.

"And you weren't there," he said bitterly. "And every time I look at you, you seem so put together. And I know— I _know_ you're not. No one could deal with this shit. Every day you look like you're Handling everything— me. Yourself." Clint smiled sadly. "I get it— you're Agent Coulson. That's how you do it every day. But I can't do it. I try thinking of it like a mission- like I'm undercover or something. It works for a day here or there so I try to get things done. Take Lucky and shit. But I just can't keep it up. I don't know how to do it. I'm just Clint fucking Barton, and I can't get out of bed in the morning, and I feel so fucking useless and— disgusting. I couldn't help him, and I can't help you. Every day you drive off and I just...can't. I can't leave. And I resent that you can. I have for a long time now."

"I wish I could stay," Phil blurted out, catching both Clint and himself by surprise. "I wish I had. I...I was too scared to face him. Death isn't anything new to me— to either of us. But _Adrian_...," he breathed. "So I left. I left him and you and I wasn't here. You were right yesterday: I'm a fucking coward. I hid behind SHIELD when I should've been here. I'm still hiding there because I'm still scared. Scared of myself. Because deep down, I'm just Phil fucking Coulson, and he's a damn mess. And it's so much easier to be Agent Coulson and SHIELD lets me be him. So I leave. And I hide. And I resent that you stayed. That you could stay when I couldn't."

Clint crawled over to where Phil was sitting in the doorway, settling barely a foot away, the closest they'd been outside of Clint punching him in a long time. And yet still, the doorway stretched between them like an invisible barrier— one of them firmly in and the other firmly out.

"So stay this time," Clint told him, as if it were that simple. "We've lost so fucking much, Phil. I don't wanna lose you too."

"I saw that your clothes were gone and thought you'd left me," Phil laughed, and it sounded like a broken thing.

"What?"

"The closet was empty. I thought you'd packed up and taken Lucky with you."

"Jesus, Phil. I'm not going anywhere, you asshole."

"I felt kind of relieved, actually," he said, and hurt flashed across Clint's face, another wound that Phil had put there, before he continued. "Because I guess I've been waiting for you to leave me for a while now. Like we've been heading down this road we couldn't get off, and that's where it ended. But I've been trying to fool myself into thinking I could handle that; that I could Handle everything and just keep going. But I can't. I know now that I can't. And that...terrifies me."

"We're both a fucking mess," Clint snorted, his face splotchy and red.

"Maybe," Phil conceded. "But I'd rather be a mess with you than without."

Clint let out a bark of laughter, sending snot rolling down his nose. He quickly wiped it onto the sleeve of his shirt with a deprecating shake of his head.

Phil just stared at him for a moment, taking him in, feeling the distance between them that had been there for so long, wanting to reach out and breach the gap once and for all, but unsure how to do it.

"I... I can't even go into this room," Phil confessed quietly, knocking his knuckles against the doorframe, knowing that Clint had probably already noticed, but hoping it would be enough. "I'm scared I'll never get out if I do."

Clint hesitated for a moment before he said, "I think I'm emotionally dependent on the dog."

Phil laughed and Clint cracked a small smile in return.

"I scaled a wall last night to avoid Matt from the front desk seeing me."

Clint actually laughed for a moment before he sobered, his eyes tracing the bruises that had bloomed across Phil's face. "I _am_ sorry about hitting you."

"Yeah, well, I deserved it," Phil admitted with a shrug

"You did...but you didn't deserve everything I said last night. Or today. If it's any consolation, I don't think I meant it all," he admitted, grimacing.

"Me neither," Phil sighed. They'd both said things- things they'd never be able to take back now that they were out in the world; their anger giving them life. "But we both meant some of it," he pointed out quietly, feeling an off putting mix of guilt and hurt swirling in the pit of his stomach. 

Maybe even most of it.

They both lapsed into silence, Lucky finally scurrying out from under the bed to collapse by Clint's side.

"I just— I don't know what _we_ are anymore, if we're not parents," Clint finally said, breaking the tension before it had a chance to really build.

"I don't either," Phil said. "I just don't want to fight anymore. We're both too damn good at hurting each other."

Clint nodded, his hand trailing over Lucky's fur absentmindedly as the dog let out a huge sigh, as if _he_ were the one who'd gone through an ordeal.

"So...now what?" he asked, sounding drained.

Phil looked over him to the half packed boxes, all the toys that Clint would probably meticulously put back the next day. Thought about the pills Clint still wouldn't take and the appointments they both wouldn't keep. The messages he'd rip up. About the pile of paperwork he needed to finish. About the gaping hole that existed in their lives where their son had once been.

Phil reached through the doorway to grab Clint’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> In regards to the ending, I know it's really abrupt and open, but in all honesty, I couldn't even entertain the thought of doing it any other way. I felt like it had to be open, because I don't think there's ever an actual ending to the grieving process when it comes to the loss of a child. And I felt like it would really cheapen their struggle to try and wrap everything up neatly in the end. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Thanks for reading.


End file.
